


Going Home

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gendry on the Iron Throne, King Gendry, Post-War, Queen Arya, Sansa in Winterfell, peaceful times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is going home to Winterfell, and nothing can stop her, not now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Home

“I want you in King’s Landing,” Arya says, when Gendry is too slow to speak. “The commons love you. You and the Hound. They call your names when you walk through the streets, I’ve seen them.”

“I want to go home,” Sansa says, and the words would have sounded childish come from anyone else but her.

“You were always meant for summer, Sansa,” Arya pronounces. “You were always a little summer girl, with dreams made for summer.”

Sansa draws herself up, copper hair flashing as her eyes narrow. “You were born in a summer haze, sister. I was born in winter. I am _made_ of winter.”

From that moment on, something is broken. Arya dismisses her and Sansa obeys. But as she curls up in a ball under her covers at night, Sansa realizes that she doesn’t remember how to have a sister.

***

They sit next to each other at dinner, where the only sound is the clanking of plates and mugs. Sansa desperately wishes that Arya would fling something at her like she did in Winterfell, and Arya is half waiting for Sansa to tell her to sit up straight, but the new queen doesn’t, and her sister doesn’t, and they both realize they don’t really live in the same world anymore. So Arya talks to the men beside her about sword making and Sansa discusses grain shortages with the King.

If you looked at the high table, you wouldn’t even know that they were sisters.

“I want Winterfell,” Sansa pronounces the next time they are in a meeting together.

Arya bristles, but the king puts his large hand on her and gently pushes her back. “Lady Sansa,” Gendry begins.

“Lord and Lady Stark are dead, Robb Stark, their heir, is dead as well. I am the next heir of Winterfell.” It hurts to speak of her family in such plain, unfamiliar terms, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as she thought it would.

“We’ll think about it,” Gendry says. “Some houses allow the title to pass down through the female line. But we do wish you would consider staying in King’s Landing, my lady.”

“I’m not your lady, Gendry,” Sansa whispers, _growls,_ almost, and before she even realizes what she has said the hands of the Kingsguard grab her and pull her away from the king.

Sansa fights the urge to scream- the last time she was in this position, they had been ordered to beat her, always ordered to beat her.

“Let me go,” she commands. “Let me go.”

No one says anything. Gendry is silent.

Sansa lifts her head, proud and strong, like her dead mother and father, like her dead brother, the king in the north. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am a She-Wolf of the North. Let me go, or I will call winter for you.”

They let her go.

***

“We’re giving you Winterfell,” Arya announces.

“Your grace is kind,” Sansa says, when they both know that Arya is anything but.

“You’ve never called me your grace before.”

“You’ve never been the queen before.”

Arya’s face softens, just the tiniest bit, and Sansa thinks she might remember what it felt like not to be _quite_ so alone.

“Good luck in Winterfell, Sansa,” she says, turning to leave out the door, her head bowed under the weight of the queen’s golden crown.

“Oh, your grace,” Sansa calls after her sister, and Arya turns. Suddenly she feels as if their roles have been reversed, and she is no longer the little bird repeating what they’ve told her. Sansa is a Stark, and she feels as if she has ice in her veins, and Arya wears a golden summer crown.

“Winter is coming.” 


End file.
